


The Dancer at the End of the Line

by margdean56



Series: Tower Mountain/New Hope stories [8]
Category: Elfquest
Genre: Gen, Human/elf relations, Lovebringer, Tower Mountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:07:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margdean56/pseuds/margdean56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How a legend grows...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dancer at the End of the Line

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in _Tales of the Tower #16_

TWR 1113

_So dance, dance, dance,_  
 _Teach us to be true._  
 _Come dance, dance, dance,_  
 _'Cause we love you._  
—Phil Ochs, “Crucifixion”

The last of Coldtime’s harshness had left the Redrock Valley. Though the evening air was cool now that the sun had set, it remained gentle, sweetened with the scent of new green and the abundant flowers of Buddingtime. Nalkor had left the woven curtain half open that separated his chambers from the outer eyrie where his bondbird nested. The soft breeze stirred the curtain’s fringes and brought him Broadspan’s sleepy churrings as the great hawk settled down for the night. Nalkor was feeling fairly settled himself, stretched out on his bed with several cushions under his back. The yellowish light from the lamp on his bedside table illuminated the knot-weaving project in his lap.

The webwork of sparkling glass beads and blue-dyed silken cords was to be a necklace for Vallaree, a small gift to lighten her spirits the next time she fell into one of the black moods that occasionally plagued her in recent turns. Nalkor was never sure what caused these bouts of depression in his normally sweet-natured younger sister. They were just another symptom of the decay in Tower Mountain, he supposed, the darkness that had grown deeper in the more than three-eights of turns since Twillor’s escape. The glider sighed at the memory of those days, the last time he could remember that his spirit held hope. But the escape had gone sour and Twillor was dead, his very name forbidden in Tower Mountain. There was nothing left for Nalkor to do but live his life and hold on to what brightness remained in it: his family, his friends, most especially the soulbrother for whose sake he forswore his chance at freedom even before it was taken from him.

The breeze stirred the curtain again and made the lampflame dance. Its sweetness seemed to reproach Nalkor for entertaining gloomy thoughts on such a night as this. At the same moment a light footstep paused outside the doorway of his chambers and a well-known sending brushed his mind. **Nalkor? Are you busy?**

**Never too busy to see you, Mikail. Come in.**

A moment later the knot-woven hanging across the inner doorway was drawn aside and Mikail stepped into the room. In contrast to Nalkor’s relaxed, if somewhat melancholy mood, the blond dancer seemed animated, his lithe body charged with energy. “Let’s go out tonight,” he said to Nalkor.

Nalkor shook his head. “I’m not really up for a party right now.”

“I didn’t mean that.” Mikail crossed the room and flung the woven curtain wide. “I meant— _out_. Out there.” He gestured toward the starry circle of night sky framed by the rock of the outer eyrie.

“Outside?” Nalkor echoed doubtfully. Now that he looked more closely at his soulbrother, he could see Mikail was not dressed for a party. His clothing was dark and nondescript, barely visible against the dimness of the eyrie, save for the golden thickness sparkling at his throat where the lamplight caught it. Nalkor blinked. He had not seen Mikail wear his torc in turns. And what was that bundle under his arm? “What do you have in mind, Mikail?”

The dancer did not reply directly. Instead he leaned his shoulder against the shaped stone of the doorway and fixed Nalkor with a quizzical blue gaze. “Do you remember the grove?” he inquired softly.

It took Nalkor a few heartbeats to recognize the reference, but once he did, the memory was as vivid as yesterday. Of course he remembered, though it had been eights-of-eights-of-eights ago when the Tower elves were still exploring the green jewel of a valley they had taken for their new home. He and Mikail had discovered the spot high up on the rocky slopes that made an arc around the hub-back edge of the valley. A seemingly impenetrable stand of cypress concealed a sheltered glade, ringed with mountain laurel and carpeted with soft grass. Here and there a mossy stone broke through the earth. At this season the turf would be dotted with brilliant yellow scattersun blossoms, while the shadier spots might harbor violets and the white blooms of starflower and coral-bells. Perhaps even…

“I wonder if Xylene’s trailing-star is still there,” Nalkor whispered. The treeshaper was the only other elf he and Mikail had ever told about the grove, their secret, special place, and then only when a blight spotted the dark, glossy green of the laurel leaves. Xylene returned the bushes to health. Later she planted the slips she had so carefully saved throughout the elves’ arduous journey from their former home. The trailing-star had flourished in the grove, to Xylene’s delight. Did it grow there still, now that Xylene was called Vine and sat moveless in the main Tower garden, sunk in vegetative dreams?

“Shall we go see?” Mikail invited.

Nalkor’s eyes dropped. “Mikail, it’s been eights-of-eights. I doubt the place even exists anymore. It’s probably all grown over by this time, even if there hasn’t been a rockslide or something.”

“I have reason to believe that isn’t so. Can it hurt to go look?”

Privately Nalkor thought it could hurt quite a bit. But he always found it well-nigh impossible to say no to Mikail, and besides, the sweet, enticing breeze was conspiring with his soulbrother to lure him out this night. With only a small sigh he laid aside his knot-weaving and reached for his flying leathers. If he was going to scramble around in the bushes tonight, he wanted to be wearing something sturdier than the light silk robe and trousers he had on. Mikail watched him change without saying anything, though a smile lurked in his blue eyes.

“You realize, of course,” Nalkor commented as he pulled on his boots, “if Father finds out about this I’ll be flying patrol with Chimreh for the next three moons.” Nalkor had long ago decided the brash, buxom hawkrider was not his type. Unfortunately, Chimreh never got the message. The Declared’s trainer tended to take advantage of this fact whenever he felt his son needed lessoning in self-control.

“Oh, surely not!” Mikail exclaimed in mock horror. “Two moons, at the outside!”

“Three,” Nalkor predicted lugubriously. “Quite possibly four.”

Mikail pretended to take this dire foreboding seriously, though in fact Eylar usually relented after a few days. “I assure you, my brother,” he said solemnly, “he will never learn of it from me. Dijin himself could not be more silent than I shall be.” He folded his arms, tilted up his chin, and assumed a stony expression, parodying the mute hawkrider.

Nalkor snorted with amusement and stood up. “Let’s go.”

The two elves walked side by side through the archway to the outer eyrie. Broadspan lifted her head and made a questioning noise at them. “Go back to sleep, old girl,” the hawkrider murmured, accompanying his words with soothing thoughts. He occasionally took Mikail flying hawkback with him, but had no intention of doing so now. The great hawks did not like flying at night. Anyway, Broadspan would be too conspicuous. Leaving the Mountain to roam about the Redrock Valley by night was not precisely forbidden, but neither would it be regarded with favor, either by Nalkor’s superiors or by Mikail’s uncle, Lord Tyaar. It had not been so in the days when the two venturesome soulbrothers discovered the grove, but nowadays leaving the Mountain for any reason save by order was considered suspicious—even more so since Twillor’s escape.

When they reached the lip of the eyrie, Nalkor moved behind his soulbrother and slid his arms under Mikail’s. As he did so he found that the dancer still held the cloth-wrapped bundle he had noticed earlier. “What’s this?” he asked, poking at it. “A midnight snack?”

“No.” Mikail paused, then added, “Nothing very heavy.”

Nalkor shrugged. “All right. Be that way.” If Mikail wanted to surprise him, he would find out when the time came. He tightened his arms around the dancer. **Ready?**

**Yes.**

As one they leaned out over the rim of the eyrie and fell into a long, slanting glide. Mikail had no gliding powers of his own, but Nalkor’s were sufficient to carry both of them long enough to reach the ground safely. The breeze ruffled their hair as they drifted out and down, curving away from the dark bulk of the mountain. Below them lay the fields and orchards of the Mraal, empty of folk now that the human farmers had sought their beds. Mother Moon had risen far enough to shine down into the Valley, though her wayward Child lagged behind the hills. In her silver light the blossoming fruit trees seemed to glow with a radiance of their own.

They left the cultivated land behind and skimmed toward the wooded slopes of the valley’s side. Nalkor began to descend more rapidly once they were safely past the human sentinels who kept watch over the fields by night. Not that any human would presume to hinder a “spirit,” but similarly no human would be able to resist boasting to his fellows that he had seen two of the Honored Ones with his own eyes. And anything unusual the humans saw would eventually get back to Shadaln, the Tower seneschal. _What the Mraal hear, His Voice knows_ was a human saying that more than one elf had disregarded and lived to regret it.

Nalkor chose a flat shelf of rock well hidden by trees and dipped toward it. Mikail let his feet drop as he was lowered to the ground. The dancer staggered a little as Nalkor withdrew his levitation and the pull of the world reasserted itself. The glider rose into the air for a few heartbeats, scanning the surrounding area, before coming to earth next to his soulbrother. “All clear, as far as I can tell,” he murmured. “Do you remember where we go from here?”

Mikail nodded. “That way,” he responded, pointing, “hub-back and sun-comes-up. Toward the leaning peak.” He started up the slope and Nalkor followed, satisfied; the direction fit well enough with his own memories, remote as they were. But as the two elves continued on through the woods, Nalkor began to get the distinct impression that Mikail knew where he was going much better than could be accounted for by memories eights-of-eights old. Every so often the blond elf paused and looked around as if momentarily perplexed, but he always seemed to find something in the surrounding landscape that told him where to go next.

And wasn’t the leaning peak a relatively recent landmark, created by a rockslide within the past couple of eights-of-eights? It had not even existed when the two of them last visited the grove. What in the Tower—? “Mikail—”

“Shh.” The dancer halted and held up a hand. “We’re almost there. Look … the Guardians.” He pointed toward two immense, gnarled cypress trees. Nalkor’s questions were driven from his mind. Tears stung his eyes as he gazed at the trees. They had grown and aged, to be sure, but they were the same ones he remembered from so long ago. Between them lay the one path into the grove. If the Guardians still stood, perhaps the place they warded would remain as well.

Mikail’s hand on his shoulder was trembling. Nalkor could sense that the dancer was as excited and apprehensive as he was. He dismissed the wild suspicion that Mikail had somehow managed to visit the grove by himself recently. Mikail was no more certain than Nalkor of what they would find when they pushed their way between the cypresses. The two of them met eyes for a moment. Then as one they scrambled up the final slope and dove through the trees.

**It’s even more beautiful than I remembered,** Nalkor sent after many heartbeats. Mikail nodded without speaking. The grove by moonlight was an enchanted place of silver and shadow, the clustered cuplike flowers of the mountain laurel shining faintly against its dark leaves. Nalkor had forgotten the tiny stream that trickled down the rock face opposite the Guardians. Its soft, musical plashing provided a counterpoint to the breeze that rustled the branches of cypress and laurel.

A faint, sweet scent came to his nostrils and he hurried across the clear space to kneel by an outcropping of mossy stones. Gently, almost reverently, he lifted a fragrant tendril of trailing-star from where it tumbled across the stone. **It’s still here.**

Mikail had come up behind him and was also looking down at the white and gold-flowered plant. **It’s even spread, I think.**

**I think you’re right.** Nalkor bent to drink in the full fragrance of the trailing-star. As he did so, his hunter’s eye caught the faint impression of a footprint in the moss at the base of the stone.

“Someone’s been here!” The glider’s voice held a trace of indignation. The footprint was too large to belong to an elf. A human? Nalkor glanced around the grove. Now that he was paying attention, he could see other signs of human visitation: shifted logs, faint tracks in the earth, a bent branch here and there. But whoever the visitors were, they had been gentle with the place. There were no signs of carelessness or despoilment. Nalkor’s unreasoning anger faded, replaced by shame. Why should he begrudge the grove’s beauty to the humans or to anyone? The Tower elves certainly did not appreciate it anymore. He should be glad someone did.

Nalkor met Mikail’s eyes and surprised a gleam of amusement there. “Did you think this place would stay secret forever?” Mikail asked quietly. “I have reason to believe it is visited regularly, though only by certain people. In fact—” He glanced up at the sky, where Child Moon had at last appeared. “—I believe they will be arriving very soon now.”

“What?” Nalkor rose to his feet. As he did so he heard footsteps approaching from outside the grove, unmistakably a human tread, though reasonably stealthy for a human.

**Shall we get out of sight?** Mikail suggested. Taking his soulbrother’s arm, he drew him toward a thick patch of laurel. The two elves wriggled under the bushes, where they lay side by side in a space that would be barely wide enough for a single human. From there they peered back out into the grove.

**You knew!** Nalkor accused.

**I heard … something,** Mikail agreed. **I wanted to find out whether or not it was true. Let’s be quiet and just watch.** Utterly mystified but increasingly curious, Nalkor did as he asked.

Before long the sound came of a body forcing its way through the narrow passage between the trees. As Nalkor and Mikail watched, a young human woman stepped into the grove. She wore a white linen dress with an embroidered bodice and apron of green, and carried a basket over one arm. After pausing to look around the grove in openmouthed wonder for a few moments, the young woman set down her basket and began to comb leaves and twigs out of her long dark hair with her fingers.

**Do you think she’s meeting her lovemate?** Nalkor wondered. The girl otherwise seemed an unlikely nighttime explorer.

**No, I think not,** Mikail replied. Before the glider could question his soulbrother’s statement, they heard the sound of another approach. The girl heard it too; she glanced toward the entrance to the grove, then gasped and made a dive for her basket. Hurriedly she withdrew a bundle of cloth and feathers. When she raised the object to place it over her face, Nalkor realized it was a mask—no hastily contrived strip of cloth, either, but a fanciful creation embroidered with flowers and decorated with strings of beads. Bright blue and red feathers formed a fringe all the way around the top and sides.

The new arrival was a man, short and stocky. It was difficult to tell his age, since he already wore a mask covering his whole head save for the mouth and chin. The mask was made of leather and shaped like the head of a goat, complete with horns. It was painted red, with yellow starbursts around the eyeholes. The newcomer paused just inside the grove and waited until the young woman finished tying on her mask. Then he stepped forward saying, “Greetings, sister, in the name of the Lovebringer.”

“In the name of the Lovebringer, greetings,” she responded. Nalkor frowned slightly in puzzlement. It was not remarkable for the two Mraal to know elvish—they all learned it as children—but they usually used their own language among themselves. And who or what was the Lovebringer? He watched as the humans exchanged a formal, though warm, embrace, then began to converse in low tones in their own language.

It was not long before a third human arrived in the grove, followed by a fourth and a fifth. All were festively garbed, mostly in white and green, and all wore fancifully decorated masks. Each new arrival greeted the others with some form of the words the man and woman had used, and was in turn welcomed in the name of the Lovebringer. As more and more people entered the grove, Nalkor turned a wondering gaze on his soulbrother. **Mikail, what in the name of all the lost children of the High Ones is going on here?**

**I believe it to be a religious ritual,** Mikail responded.

That at least made a weird kind of sense. Even those elves who had little contact with the Mraal were aware that besides their general worship of the elves as the spirits of the Mountain, the humans had various cults dedicated to individual “spirits.” Nalkor’s mother, Vayree, was venerated as the Weaver by the Mraal and maintained a sizable retinue of human apprentices and assistants. After Twillor’s escape, to his acute discomfort, Nalkor himself had been pressed into taking his mentor’s place as the tutelary spirit of the human border guards and scouts. As for Mikail, he had been worshipped as the Dancer for time out of mind, and it never ceased to amuse Nalkor how little notice Mikail took of this fact—even less than he did of the similar adoration of the younger dancers.

“But who’s the ‘Lovebringer’?** A horrible suspicion arose in the glider’s mind. **This isn’t Doleera’s cult, is it?** If these humans started an orgy in his and Mikail’s special grove, he really would be angry.

**No!** Mikail’s reply was half indignant, half amused. **No, my brother. Doleera is the spirit of pleasure, not of love.**

**Then who—** 

**Wait. Watch. Listen. I think the humans themselves will tell us if we wait long enough.**

By the time Child Moon had traveled a further handspan up the sky, there were perhaps four-eights of humans in the grove. The last two arrivals entered together: a small man bent with age whose eyeless half-mask did not conceal a wispy gray beard, and a younger man with reddish hair, tall and somewhat angular in build, who guided the old man’s faltering steps with obvious affection and reverence. The younger of the two looked familiar to Nalkor even with his face covered. **Mikail, haven’t I seen that human before? The redheaded man who just came in with the elder.**

**Indeed you have,** Mikail replied with a hint of satisfaction. **That is Torek, my body-servant.**

_Ah-hah,_ thought Nalkor. He began to get an inkling of where Mikail might have heard about this gathering. But that brought him no closer to guessing its purpose.

After exchanging the ritual greetings with the assembled humans, the old man asked something of Torek in a quavering voice, which the younger man answered after a glance about the grove. The elder nodded and spoke more loudly, still in the Mraal tongue. The other humans, with amiable murmurs, seated themselves in a circle, some on stones and fallen logs, some on the grass. Here and there a clay lamp was lit, its cheery flame adding a golden tinge to the silver moonslight. There was no particular order to the circle that Nalkor could detect. A good many of the humans had brought baskets with them, which gave the gathering the air of a large benighted picnic. When all the humans save the old man were seated, the elder spoke once more. This time, however, he spoke in elvish.

“I speak in the sacred tongue, the speech of the spirits, that my words may be blessed and heard by hearts as well as by ears. My brothers and sisters in love, we are gathered in the name of the Son of the Great Spirit, who is called the Young One, and the Laughing Spirit, and the Lovebringer. According to our custom, let the one who is youngest among us speak now and teach us the lore of the Lovebringer.”

After some whispering and playful nudges, the young woman who had first entered the grove stood up and began to speak in a clear voice. “Hear the lore of the Lovebringer, the Son of the Great Spirit! He was with us only for a brief time, in the season of new life as befit his youth. He was never proud or scornful; in his laughter there was naught of mockery, but only joy, and his love shone like the daystar on all about him. To all alike was his love given: to priest and elder, farmer and crafter, parent and child, youth and maiden, even to the least babe and the lowliest outcast. He smiled upon all and loved all, and led us all in the Dance of Love. So it is recorded in our hearts.” The girl finished her recitation and looked shyly around the circle.

“Well spoken, my sister,” the old man said. The young woman sat down. “Let one now speak the lesson of the Lovebringer,” said the old man.

Another man rose, one whose mask was decorated with the bright scales of a sunfish. “Hear now the lesson of the Lovebringer! By his presence and his deeds did the Lovebringer show us that all alike are blessed and worthy of love, and that love brings the greatest blessing of all. The Lovebringer asks of us only that we love one another, as fully and joyfully as did he. Let us hear this lesson with our hearts!”

“And live it with our lives,” all the humans said together.

The man in the fish mask sat down. The elder continued, “I shall speak now of the sorrow of the Lovebringer. Let all who hear remember my words, for my heart forebodes that my time grows short.” The old man’s voice was calm, accepting. “I do not think I shall live to speak them again when another Buddingtime has gladdened the world. My brothers and sisters in love, hear and remember the words of Sket son of Seskel son of Keleneth—do not be alarmed at the naming of names, my beloved friends, for I am too old to know fear anymore—whose task it was to see and report the sorrow of the Lovebringer and his flight from the Redrock Valley.

“My eyes have lost their sight now, but well I remember that vision. As a truant boy I lay hid in the brush at the Valley’s hubward rim and heard the passing of feet. I looked out from my hiding place and saw him, the Son of the Great Spirit. By the golden mark of his kinship with the Spirit Lord did I know him, and by his own gentle face, though he no longer laughed nor smiled. He stood at the Valley’s rim gazing back on it, and the sun shone upon his face and upon the tears that glimmered there. He looked upon the Redrock Valley and he wept, and then he turned and went away. No man or spirit has seen him since. This was the vision of Sket. Let one now speak its meaning.”

A heavy-set woman in a mask made entirely of blue and purple flowers rose to speak. “Hear now the lesson of the vision of Sket. The Lovebringer asked nothing of us but that we love one another as fully and joyfully as he, but we failed him. We did not love enough, and therefore he fled weeping. And therefore the spirits of the Mountain were angry with us and set us tests of our faith, the forbidding, the punishment, the persecution and death. All these we must endure with constancy and patience, abjuring hatred and bitterness, if we are to redeem our fault and open the way for the promise to be fulfilled. Let us hear this lesson with our hearts!”

“And live it with our lives,” the humans chorused as the woman seated herself.

Sket continued, “Let the promise now be spoken, the promise of the Lovebringer.”

Beside the elder, Torek rose to speak. His voice rang clear and confident. “The promise of the Lovebringer is this: If we can only love enough, if we can remain constant through all trials, even unto death, if we can hold fast to our love for him and for one another and put aside all hatred and enmity, one day the Lovebringer will return. He will lead us all in the Dance of Love, and once more all will be united in joy. This is the promise we hold forever in our hearts, we, the followers of the Lovebringer.”

“In the joy of that promise we are gathered,” intoned the old man. “This night we celebrate the feast of the Lovebringer, in commemoration of his coming and in the hope of his return. My brothers and sisters, let us rejoice in our coming together. Put away all ill feeling from your hearts this night, along with all sorrow and despair, for this is his festival. Let us adorn one another with love and feast with gladness.”

All around the circle baskets were opened. Hands were thrust into them and emerged holding garlands of bright blossoms. Laughing, the humans crowned one another with the fragrant wreaths. It was the sight of all the humans garlanded with flowers that finally touched off Nalkor’s memory, already teased by the various recitations. He turned his head to look at Mikail, astonishment in his face. He reached out and touched the torc Mikail wore, the ornate neck-ring that had been shaped by the dancer’s father.

**It’s Piet, isn’t it?**

Mikail nodded. His blue eyes were bright with the suspicion of tears. **Yes. Piet … my little brother.**

Nalkor remembered Piet well, though he had indeed been in the Redrock Valley for only a short time. He and his three Outsider companions had wandered into the area in the moon or so just before Twillor’s escape. They were spotted by the hawkrider patrols and brought before Tyaar. There it was revealed, to everyone’s astonishment, that Piet was the second son of Meiron, Tyaar’s long-lost brother and Mikail’s father. Piet and his friends later fled the Tower during the escape and were never found. But brief as his sojourn had been in the Redrock Valley, the sweet-natured, innocent, childlike elf made a deep impression on its inhabitants. In that small span of time a bond had grown between him and his elder half-brother that was far more than a tie of blood, a communion of souls not unlike the one Mikail and Nalkor shared. Now it appeared that Piet’s visit had affected the humans no less profoundly.

**Do you remember the night we fetched him back from the human village?** Mikail asked.

**Don’t I just! Trying to fly Broadspan with that ‘happysending’ of his romping through my mind was an experience I’m not likely to forget. And then we got to the village and found them all dancing around with flowers on their heads… Do you think that’s how this got started?** Nalkor tilted his head toward the group of feasting, flower-crowned humans.

Mikail nodded. **I am certain of it.**

**But how did you find out about it? And how did you know they were going to be here tonight?**

The blond dancer peered through the laurel leaves at the humans. **It is rather a long story … but I think I will have time to tell it to you while the humans are feasting. They do not seem to be in any great hurry.** He wriggled himself into a more comfortable position and began his tale.

**You may have some recollection of the two human servants who were assigned to Piet while he was in Tower Mountain, Adrovic and Chelle.** Mikail illustrated his words with a picture-sending of a youth whose dark, wavy hair framed a gentle, serious face, and a smiling round-cheeked maiden with straight silky black hair braided down her back. **They were the ones who arranged for Piet to visit the human village that day.** Nalkor nodded.

**After Piet left, one of the first things I did was speak to Shadaln and have the two humans reassigned to me. Partly it was because I wished to protect them. I have rarely seen Lord Tyaar so angry as he was after Twillor’s escape. While he seldom vents his wrath upon the humans, I did not want to risk the possibility that he might make an exception in their case. Piet loved them.** Nalkor did not need to ask any other reason for Mikail’s action.

**I grew fond of them myself,** the dancer continued. **They were good servants, gentle and sweet-natured, easy to talk to—no doubt the qualities Shadaln was looking for when she selected them for Piet. So when Buddingtime came round again and one morning Chelle showed up to straighten my chamber with a flower behind her ear, I asked her where it came from. **’I was down in the village last night at the festival of the Lovebringer, Honored One,’ she told me.

**’The Lovebringer?’ I asked her. ‘Who is that?’ She gave me one of those odd little smiles that mean a human thinks you are testing her. Then she told me a tale not too unlike the one that human girl told tonight.

**’The festival was held to commemorate his visit,’ Chelle said to me. ‘The elders say there will be such a feast held every Buddingtime now, until the Lovebringer returns.’

**At that point I had to send her away. I don’t remember the excuse I used. What I do remember is that after she was gone I threw myself down on the bed and wept. It was the first time I allowed myself to weep for Piet, or rather for my own loss. The knowledge that there were others who remembered him with love was what I needed to release my grief.**

**Was that when you finally broke off that awful, destructive lovemating with Chimreh? I remember how relieved we all were.**

**Yes, that was the reason,** Mikail agreed, **the beginning of my healing. After that I could think about him again and remember something besides the fact that he was gone.

**Chelle and Adrovic were lifemates by that time, and not long afterward Chelle found herself with child. She returned to the village while Adrovic remained in my service. Time passed, more than a turn. Perhaps it was two, or three … I do not think it was four. It was Buddingtime again—I was reminded of that fact when Adrovic arrived one day with a sheaf of apple blossom to decorate the bedchamber. The flowers stirred my memory. I’ve associated apple blossom with Piet ever since the day we spent together in the apple garden.** Mikail paused for a heartbeat or two, his eyes misty with recollection, before continuing. **I asked Adrovic about that season’s festival of the Lovebringer, when it was to be or if it had already occurred.

**Adrovic’s face closed up. He was a quiet soul, always rather serious—Chelle was the perky one—but I had never seen him look like that before. It was like looking at a mask. He said, ‘The worship of the Lovebringer is forbidden, Honored One.’

**’Forbidden!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why?’ Shadaln does not consider it good policy to show surprise to humans, but I was too shocked to care.

**’The Mraal do not question the commands of the spirits,’ Adrovic said. His voice was as devoid of expression as his face. ‘The worship of the Lovebringer is forbidden.’ He turned away from me and began to arrange the apple branches in a jug of water. I suppose I could have questioned him further—I doubt he would have disobeyed my direct order to speak—but I felt it would be too painful for both of us. Instead I went looking for Shadaln.

**I was able to get the story from her, as I knew I would—Shadaln knows more about the Mraal than any other elf in the Tower—but I could tell it was a sore subject with her as well. She learned about the cult almost as soon as it appeared, of course, and quite naturally informed Lord Tyaar of it. My lord uncle requires to be kept abreast of the doings of the Mraal no less than of anything else that goes on in the Redrock Valley. I do not think Shadaln expected Tyaar’s reaction to her news. He has never before seen fit to interfere with the humans’ religious practices. Upon hearing of the worship of the Lovebringer, however, he became angry and ordered Shadaln to forbid it. She was to use any means at her command to enforce this order, but the cult was to be eradicated.**

Mikail paused, looking thoughtful. **Do you know, Nalkor, I do not think my lord uncle could have chosen a surer method of disclosing that he too loved Piet, in his way. It has always been so with those he has loved and who have betrayed or abandoned him, as he sees it—Lady Tascha, Twillor, even Taywar, perhaps. Their names are forbidden in his presence; Twillor’s music may not be played. It is as if he wishes to obliterate all memory of them, make them as if they had never been … and thus cannot hurt him.**

**Maybe.** Nalkor peered out at the celebrating humans. **But Shadaln didn’t eradicate the cult.**

**Oh, but she did … so far as she knew. She passed on Lord Tyaar’s command to the Mraal immediately, through the Tower Guard and the Warriors of the Golden Torc. I suspect she thought that would be the end of it. It was not. The banning of the worship of the Lovebringer caused great dissension among the Mraal. They could not understand why the cult had been forbidden.** Mikail’s sending was wistful, tinged with sadness. **How could the worship and celebration of such an innocent, joyful spirit possibly be wrong? Why would the Spirit Lord object to the veneration of his own son? The humans found the order incomprehensible. They began to question. Shadaln told me a few of them even ventured to ask her and Kesik why the order had been given. She could not answer them. She was not certain of the reasons herself, and those reasons she could guess at were not ones she would dare reveal to the Mraal.

**Vouchsafed no answers by His Voice, the humans had to come up with their own. The next Buddingtime came. Many of the Mraal obeyed the order and refrained from celebrating the festival of the Lovebringer. But some did not. There were those who claimed the order had been a test of their faith, and that only by risking the spirits’ displeasure could they prove their devotion to the Lovebringer and enable him to return. The festival was held, though by no means all of the villagers participated. Shadaln realized that more drastic measures were needed if the cult was to be suppressed. That Brightleaf, at the harvest games, none of the contestants were found worthy to attend upon the spirits—none. And His Voice would say only, ‘You were warned.’

**Do you realize how severe a punishment that was, Nalkor? I did not until Shadaln explained it to me. The Mraal believe they gain honor, worthiness, virtue—what they call _bakhan_ —merely by being in our presence, more than they could ever hope to gain on their own. Their goal in life is to attain as much _bakhan_ as they can. Shadaln did worse than threaten their lives. She threatened their reason for living.

**I do not think even Shadaln expected how violent the humans’ reaction would be. In the days following the harvest games, all those who had celebrated the festival of the Lovebringer were brought before the Mraal Council of Elders and called upon to renounce his worship. Those who would not, of whom there were a good many, were punished, beaten or whipped until they renounced their faith. A few were even killed, those who would not deny him no matter how severely they were beaten. Not only warriors were among the steadfast. Old people, maidens, mothers refused to denounce him—and died.** The dancer’s face was wet with tears.

Nalkor himself was deeply shaken. **I never heard any of this.**

**Nor I … not until my chance remark to Adrovic led me to question Shadaln. The Mraal’s affairs are their own unless they interfere with our comfort.** Mikail’s sending was bitter with self-reproach.

**I wonder if Mother knew.**

**She may have.** Vayree tended to take an interest in her human apprentices even outside of their duties, and she was a close friend of Shadaln. **But what could she—what could any of us have done? Lord Tyaar’s wishes were made plain. Shadaln carried out his orders as best she could. And as far as she or any of us knew, the tactic worked. The Lovebringer was not mentioned again in any spirit’s presence, nor, when Buddingtime came, was his festival held in the village. The cult was dead, or so we thought. I listened to what Shadaln had to say and apologized afterward for bringing up a subject that obviously distressed her. Then I went away and put the matter from my mind.**

**But the cult didn’t die after all.**

**No. It simply went into hiding.** Mikail smiled slightly. **Isn’t it odd that I never considered that possibility, even after having been a conspirator myself in Twillor’s escape?**

**It doesn’t seem odd to me,** Nalkor sent bitterly, **considering how well _that_ worked out.**

**It was not a complete failure,** Mikail reminded him gently, **despite some of its more painful consequences. In any case, I had no inkling until perhaps an eightday ago that the worship of the Lovebringer survived as anything more than an aching memory, kept in the hearts of those such as Adrovic who had known Piet best.**

**What happened an eightday ago?**

**An eightday ago, I left something behind in my chambers when I went down to rehearsal, a costume sketch I wanted to discuss with Peysol. I remembered it when I was about three-quarters of the way down the Grand Stair and went back to fetch it. When I came to the doorway of my chambers I heard voices inside, rather to my surprise, human voices. One of them was Torek’s. The other I did not know, but it was a young woman’s. My first thought was that Torek had made an assignation—**

**As well it might be!** Nalkor exclaimed. **Honestly, Mikail, I don’t know why you put up with the kind of impudence you do from Torek, or with the liberties he takes.**

Mikail’s eyes twinkled. **I’m very fond of Torek. He speaks pertly to me because he knows I enjoy it, and takes only those liberties I allow him. Underneath his cheekiness he is really very attentive, and a good soul. Anyway, I realized almost at once that he was not discussing amorous matters with the young servant girl. For one thing, they were speaking elvish. Even Torek is not so brash as to use the ‘spirit tongue’ for a seduction. For another, one of the first words I heard clearly was ‘Lovebringer.’ Had it not been for that, I would either have walked in on the two of them or gone away and come back for the sketch later. As it was, I felt as if my feet were rooted to the floor. I desperately wanted to know what they were saying.

**'But how can I be sure it is the Lovebringer’s grove?’ the girl’s voice asked.

**I heard Torek snort. ‘Even if you get the directions muddled, there are not that many cypress trees of that age in the hills—certainly not in pairs. But I shall describe it for you, sister, so you will know you are in the right place. It is beautiful at night … at any time, really, but especially so at night.’ He then proceeded with a description it did not take me long to recognize.**

**The grove.**

**The grove. After he finished the description, Torek had the girl repeat the directions he’d given her earlier—**

**—which is how you found your way here so easily in the dark—**

Mikail grinned briefly. **—and then he asked her, ‘Have you a festival mask?’

**'Yes,’ she answered. ‘It’s one that belonged to my mother’s sister. But why do we need masks, Tor—brother?’

**'To hide our faces, little sister,’ he replied. ‘That way, none among us can say for certain that we saw any particular person at the forbidden festival, or heard them named. That is why we call each other only “brother” and “sister.” But our masks are bright and beautiful to express our joy at his festival, and we are indeed brothers and sisters to one another, united by his love. Do you understand?’

**'Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll remember my mask.’

**'Good. Go then, sister, and abide in his love.’

**'Thank you, brother. Farewell in the name of the Lovebringer.’

**'In the name of the Lovebringer, farewell.’

**I hid behind a stairpost as the girl came out, so I did not see what she looked like at the time. I suspect she was that young woman who spoke first tonight. The voice sounded the same. Once she was gone, I returned to the doorway of my chambers and stepped through the curtain. ‘So, Torek,’ I said, ‘the cult of the Lovebringer is not dead after all.’

**He whirled around. I have never seen a human look so terrified. His face went bloodless and for a moment I thought he was going to faint. Instead he fell on his knees and covered his face with his hands. He was trembling all over. When I went to him and touched his shoulder he nearly jumped out of his skin.

**'Torek—’ I began.

**'Honored One,’ he blurted, ‘I beg of you, if I have deserved any love of you at all, let my punishment fall upon me alone. Let me be slain quickly and at once so I may not be forced to betray my brothers and sisters.’

**'Torek,’ I said, ‘I am not going to punish you, not even for holding a secret meeting in my chambers without my leave. I am certainly not going to let you be killed. Only tell me of the cult of the Lovebringer.’

**He began to tremble even more violently, though he did venture to look me in the face. ‘Honored One,’ he whispered, ‘ask of me anything but that. It is forbidden … I may not speak of it.’

**'I know it is forbidden, Torek. Speak of it anyway because I ask it of you. I swear on my word of honor I will not betray you. For—for Piet’s sake, Torek, tell me!’

**He stared at me in shock for several heartbeats. Then he whispered, ‘You know … the name of the Lovebringer, the name we do not speak. You remember him. It is true … he is not forgotten, even among the spirits themselves.’

**'No, he is not forgotten,’ I said. ‘Not by me, at least. Tell me of how he is remembered among the Mraal.’

**I finally got Torek to sit down and tell me the history of the cult after the first persecutions. The Coldtime after the harvest games was a time of despair for the followers of the Lovebringer. But the next Buddingtime brought what seemed like a miracle and a sign from the spirits. A young woman, a member of the Scouts, was searching the slopes of the Valley for her little sister, who had gotten lost while playing hide-and-go-seek with her fellows. The other searchers gave up when sunset came, thinking to wait till morning to continue looking, but the young Scout could not rest until she found the child. Soon after second moonrise she heard her sister’s voice answer her call. Following it, she came to a place where two cypress trees stood and wriggled between them. In the open space beyond she discovered the child, sitting in a pool of moonslight with flowers in her hair. 'Look, sister, I found a secret place,’ said the little girl. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

**The place was indeed beautiful, and secret—a hidden grove far from the normal comings and goings of the Mraal. And the young Scout was a follower of the Lovebringer. Though under the lash she had renounced his worship with her words, she kept his memory in her heart. Now she saw in a flash how she could redeem her weakness and allow the cult to live on. During the next moon the word spread, whispered from ear to ear, of the discovery of the sacred grove. That Buddingtime his followers held the festival of the Lovebringer there, safely away from the village and persecution.

**Not that there have not been further trials of his followers’ faith, as Torek was quick to tell me. Though no word of it has ever reached Shadaln’s ears, the Mraal are aware the cult continues in secret. Its enemies have never discovered the grove or the exact details of the worship of the Lovebringer, but every so often one of his followers will be revealed by chance or betrayal and tortured or killed by the Council of Elders. Most of them have died rather than betray their faith or their brothers and sisters. Occasionally one will break and reveal the names of other worshippers—there have been several extensive purges. But Torek told me an odd thing: the losses to the cult are always more than made up afterward by new members, people who have been sickened by the tortures of their fellow villagers and inspired by the constancy of the cult members in the face of suffering and death. All the efforts to kill the cult only make it stronger. It lives and grows, its members meeting in secret, holding fast to their love and their hope of his return.**

Mikail’s mind-voice fell silent. For a while he and Nalkor gazed thoughtfully out from the bushes at the celebrating humans. At last Nalkor sent, **Why?**

Mikail hesitated for a few heartbeats, then answered, **I think … because it was needed.** When Nalkor gave him a puzzled look, he continued, **For the most part we have kept the knowledge of the Tower’s decline from the humans. Shadaln has always done her best to shield them from the darkness and cruelty that have infected us since Lord Tyaar went mad. But they are intelligent, thinking beings like us. Though they may not realize it consciously, they cannot fail to sense it, living beside us and among us as they do. The decay, the despair, was creeping into their hearts as surely as it was into ours. Then Piet came. He showed them there was still innocence and joy in the world, a love free from darkness. He gave them hope and a new reason for living. Is it any wonder they cling to that hope so faithfully?**

Nalkor was silent for a while, digesting this thought as he watched the humans feasting. Not far from the elves’ hiding place a couple sat close together, feeding each other with sweet cornmeal cakes. At the other side of the grove Torek guided ancient Sket’s hands so the blinded elder could drink from a skin of wine.

**But, Mikail,** Nalkor sent at last to his soulbrother, **you know as well as I do … he’s not coming back.**

Mikail did not answer. His face was averted and his mind silent. With an inward sigh, Nalkor returned to watching the humans. The feast drew to a close. Empty vessels and the remains of the meal disappeared into the baskets. Someone began to play a flute. Someone else started singing a slow, gentle tune in the Mraal tongue. Other voices chimed in. Another song began, a livelier one this time. All the humans joined the chorus. The song was followed by several more.

At last a slender youth with a mask shaped like a stag’s head sprang up, laughing. “The dance! The dance!” he cried. “It’s time, my brothers and sisters, it’s time!” A light, merry four-beat melody rang out through the cool, flower-scented air, played by ancient Sket on a reed pipe. The youth reached down and pulled the nearest person to her feet, the heavy-set woman with the flower mask. They began to dance in a simple step, one-two-three-hop. One by one, then in twos and threes, the other humans rose to join the dance. The line grew and snaked about the grove. The music was counterpointed by joyful laughter. The followers of the Lovebringer danced, flower-crowned under the moons, united in love.

All of a sudden Nalkor realized the place beside him was empty. At the same moment he saw another dancer join the end of the line. The figure was masked like the others, in a feathered, bird-beaked creation that covered his head and neck. But no mask could disguise that form from Nalkor, a form too slight to be human that moved with a sureness and grace far beyond the mortal.

**Mikail, have you lost your mind?** the glider sent. There was no answer. The dance went on, weaving among the rocks, treading lightly upon the flower-strewn grass. At last the music ended. The dancers’ feet stilled. They stood silent under the moons, hands clasped in fellowship.

A hesitant voice broke the silence, the voice of a young woman, the next-to-last dancer in line. It was the dark-haired girl who had first entered the grove. In wondering tones she addressed her unexpected partner. “Are—are you he?”

The reply came calmly, quiet but clear in the hush that had fallen over the humans. “No, I am not he … but I am one who loves him too. Go in peace, my brothers and sisters.” The dancer at the end of the line stepped back, gently disengaging his hand from the girl’s, and disappeared into the bushes surrounding the grove. A few heartbeats later Nalkor felt Mikail slip into his place beside him as excited murmurs began to rise among the humans. The glider turned toward his soulbrother, all ready to expostulate with him, but his outburst was halted by the look on Mikail’s face. The dancer wore a distant, dreamy smile that reminded Nalkor of the play of light on translucent glass—the reflection of an inner glow.

Neither of the two elves said anything as the last of the humans left the grove and they prepared to return to Tower Mountain. But as they lifted off the ground and glided upward through the flower-scented air of Buddingtime, Nalkor realized that from somewhere a breath of love had entered his heart to rekindle the flame of hope.

  
_Dare, then, the measure of the Dance;_  
 _Follow the Fool in his reckless fall,_  
 _In his madness-joy, his destiny-in-chance,_  
 _For all luck is good, and the Naught is All._  
—“Chorea Magna”

A Dancer


End file.
